Seduced by the Heir. Pamela Yaye
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“No. The last time you went on a date Michael Jordan was still playing for the Bulls!”
Rafael had a zinger on his tongue, one he knew would wipe the grin clear off Stefano’s face. But before he could speak, his friend resumed his interrogation.
“Did Paris cheat on you?” he asked in a solemn tone. “Is that why you broke up?”
“No, she transferred to Spelman her junior year, and the distance proved too much....” Rafael trailed off, stopping himself from saying more. What he didn’t tell Stefano was that Paris had dumped him three days before his birthday and immediately started dating someone else. Some rich, good-looking clown on the football team. It’s in the past, water under the bridge, he told himself, downing the rest of his wine cooler. I moved on a long time ago, and never gave Paris, or her loser boyfriend, another thought.
If that’s true, his conscience said, then why are you still bitter and resentful about your breakup? Why does your heart ache every time you see her?
“I can’t believe you’re still sweet on her after all this time.”
“Stefano, knock it off. I’m not sweet on Paris. I haven’t seen her in years.”
“So? Who’s to say she’s not the one?” he challenged, raising an eyebrow. He leaned forward expectantly. “Maybe it’s true what they say. Maybe absence does make the heart grow fonder.”
Rafael laughed, rejecting his friend’s opinion with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Thanks for the advice, Dr. Love, but I’m not interested in making a connection with Paris or anyone else.”
But I wouldn’t mind a few nights of carnal pleasure, he thought as images of his ex-girlfriend bombarded his mind. Rafael couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex. Six months? A year? He told himself it didn’t matter, because now that he’d reunited with his old college sweetheart his sexual drought was about to come to an abrupt end.
A grin tilted the corners of his lips. Seducing Paris was going to be more fun than playing high-stakes poker in Atlantic City. Rafael lived for the thrill of the chase, the pursuit, and he had a feeling the sexy socialite was going to make things very interesting this weekend. The only hurdle would be hooking up with Paris without everyone at the villa finding out. Rafael didn’t want word of his holiday tryst getting back to his brothers, or worse, his matchmaking mother. He’d think of something, he had to, because tomorrow, when he saw Paris at breakfast, he was setting his plan in motion.
“I’m beat. I’m turning in.” Stefano stood and swiped his iPhone off the coffee table. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day, and if I doze off during the tour Cassandra will kill me!”
“Is everyone heading into the city for the sightseeing excursion?”
“And by everyone, you mean Paris, right?” He wore a wry grin. “Yeah, she’s going.”
“I might tag along,” Rafael said, keeping his tone light, casual. The thought of spending the day with Paris appealed to him, but he didn’t confess the truth. If his best friend knew he was feeling something for her—even just a little—he’d blab to Cassandra, and Rafael didn’t want anyone to know he was interested in hooking up with his former flame. “My meeting has been pushed back to Monday, and I have nothing planned tomorrow.”
“That’s great. Now you’ll have time to romance Paris!”
Rafael scoffed at the suggestion. Ever since Stefano had proposed to Cassandra he seemed hell-bent on hooking him up with one of her single friends. And when he wasn’t playing matchmaker he was bragging about his lady love. Stefano couldn’t go five minutes without talking about how great she was, and listening to his buddy gush about his bride-to-be made Rafael feel lonelier than ever.
First my best friend finds love, and then my brothers, he thought, releasing a deep sigh. Coming to Venice was a bad idea. All this love and happiness is sickening.
“I’ll meet you on the tennis court at 7:00 a.m.,” Stefano said, as they exited the media room. “Don’t be late, or I’ll send Julietta to come get you.”
“You better not, or you’ll be sporting a black eye on your wedding day.”
Chuckling good-naturedly they strode down the hall and climbed the staircase.
“Good night, man.”
“Try not to snore,” Rafael teased, clapping his friend on the back. “I’m a light sleeper, and I need my rest so I can whip you in straight sets tomorrow.”
“Keep dreaming, pretty boy, it’s not going to happen!”
Seconds later, Rafael opened his bedroom door, flipped on the lights and kicked off his shoes. The first thing he noticed was Julietta—sitting on the king-size bed in a flimsy lace negligee.
“I can’t sleep,” she stated. Her eyes were as wide and as innocent as Bambi’s, but the mischievous expression on her tanned face told another story.
“What are you doing here?” Rafael retorted.
“I came to see you,” she purred, flinging the blanket aside and hopping to her feet. Meeting his gaze head-on, she stalked toward him like a jaguar prowling the jungle for fresh meat. “Let’s get down and dirty. I have wine, and more toys than a dominatrix!”
“I’m not interested.”
“Then I’ll just have to change your mind.” Julietta reached for his belt buckle, but Rafael grabbed her hands. “What are you doing? Don’t you want to have a good time?”
“It’s late, and I have work to do.”
“You don’t want me to stay?”
“No, sorry, I don’t.”
Her smile fell away, and a sneer stained her glossy red lips. “I don’t need this crap. I’m superpopular here, and there are plenty of guys who’d kill to be with me,” she argued, propping her hands on her wide, full hips. “I was the third runner up in last year’s Miss Italia contest, and I have more Twitter followers than the Dalai Lama....”
To end her rant, Rafael opened the bedroom door. “Good night, Julietta. Sleep well.”
“If you change your mind, which I know you will, I’ll be skinny-dipping in the pool.”
Rafael watched the blue-eyed temptress slink down the staircase, convinced that things couldn’t get any worse. But as he turned away, he spotted Paris standing at the other end of the hall, staring at him. He wanted to tell her about what didn’t happen with Julietta, but he could tell by the malevolent glare on Paris’s face that she thought he was the scum of the earth. But he had to say something, had to defend himself. Before Rafael could utter a word she marched into her bedroom and slammed the door.
On Friday morning downtown Venice was clogged with noisy tourists, and flamboyant street performers hoping to make a quick buck, but Rafael couldn’t keep his eyes off Paris. Standing in the middle of the world-famous Piazza San Marco was a mind-blowing experience, one that should have been captivating enough to hold his attention, but it didn’t. Not with Paris around.
She looks like an angel, Rafael thought, admiring her on the sly. Her oversize sunglasses gave her a youthful air, her crimson lips held a dazzling smile and her sleeveless white dress played up her pear-shaped figure.
Yeah, a naughty angel you’d love to see naked, his conscience taunted. Quit gawking at her. You’re better than that. You’re a Morretti, remember?
But Rafael didn’t turn away. He lacked the willpower and fortitude it required. Paris was dressed to kill, and her traffic-stopping curves made him hot under the collar and below the belt. Diamonds dangled from her ears, neck and wrists, and her ankle